


Castrovalva, Uncut

by Lamiel



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M, PWP, You know this happened, archiving old fic, possible dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 08:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21176345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamiel/pseuds/Lamiel
Summary: What the Master needed, right now, was a good, long, hard,plan.





	1. Chapter 1

_Pharos Project, Earth_

The massive radio antennae continued its slow turn upward, past 60 degrees, on its way to 90. But it was all right, the Master told himself. The Doctor was just playing his usual death-defying game, drawing it out a bit longer than usual this time. He’d be back safely in a moment, the universe rescued, ready to play the hero of the hour with his ego puffed up even bigger than usual. The Master tried to think of something suitably scathing to say on his return, to keep him from being too insufferable about it.

Then the Doctor lost his grip on the antennae framework. The Master took an involuntary step forward, a cry of warning locked in his throat. The Doctor caught himself at the edge of a metal strut, hanging from his arms thirty feet above the ground.

The Doctor strained to pull himself up and fell back. For a moment his eyes met the Master’s as the Master stood frozen, staring in shock. Then the Doctor let go, and fell.

“No!” the Master’s paralysis broke, and he lurched forward just as the Doctor hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

But he was all right. He had to be all right. It had been a bad fall, yes, but he’d survived worse. _The Master_ had subjected him to much worse, and he’d been fine. The Doctor – especially this Doctor – was nigh on invincible. It was impossible, inconceivable that he might die now, when the Master hadn’t even been _trying_ . . .

The Master’s mental litany of reassurances stuttered to a halt as the Doctor’s body shifted into the first stages of regeneration. His form blurred, changed, and the Master had to look away, shutting his eyes against the sting of tears. It wasn’t fair. He’d barely begun to know this Doctor; for most of the time he’d occupied this body the Master had been trapped in his own last, dying shell. And now, when he finally had strong, vital, living, feeling flesh of his own, when they were _equals_ again, the Doctor was . . .

Was . . .

Well.

The Master blinked, staring down at the Doctor’s new form as he lay stretched upon the grass. Slender, with pale skin and hair and gentle, almost delicate features, this Doctor was nearly drowning in the oversized coat and scarf of his previous body.

He sat up a little, looking about himself dazedly. His companions seemed afraid to touch him. The Master knew how they felt. There was something vulnerable, almost fragile, about this Doctor that had been entirely lacking in his previous self. That Doctor had been so strong, with a strength that simply overpowered anyone around him into submission. It had been all the Master could do to hold ground against him. This Doctor, now, the Master looked at this newborn Doctor and . . .

Oh.

Oh _my._

It seemed this Trakenite body was a bit more . . . well, _more_ than the Master had had in a very long time.

He took a step back and closed the control room door. He needed to get to his TARDIS. He needed space, and time to think, to regroup and to plan. Yes. What he needed, right now, was a good, long, hard, _plan._

*~*~*

There had been a time when the Master had wanted nothing more than to drape the Doctor, his Doctor, in robes of ruling crimson and crown him with all the precious stones of Gallifrey. He’d longed to build him a throne at the very summit of the Citadel and lay the universe at his feet. Before it had all gone so wrong between them, and even afterward, the Master’s greatest desire had been lead the whole of creation in worship of his Doctor.

Building him a planet, the Master figured, was a good first step.

And Castrovalva was a _wonderful_ planet. Peaceful, with just enough mystery worked into its dimensionally transcendent folds to keep the Doctor’s attention thoroughly engaged. The Doctor would be able to rest here, and heal, and recover. The Master had prepared everything, even going so far as to remember to provide for his pets. Really, nothing could go wrong.

The Master was therefore utterly dumbfounded when the first stage of his plan went off without a hitch, and he found himself in possession of not only the Doctor’s companions and the Doctor’s TARDIS, but in fact of the living, breathing Doctor himself, currently sleeping in a room just 13.4 meters from the Master’s own bedchamber.

The combination of those three thoughts, Doctor, sleeping, and bedchamber made the Master have to sit down for a moment on the edge of his own bedspread, feeling lightheaded.

The thing was . . . well, the thing _was_, this Doctor was barely twelve hours into his regeneration. He was still woozy, and weak, and hardly himself. He scarcely knew who he himself _was._ It would be hardly gentlemanly for the Master to take advantage of him in his weakened state.

The Master thought about that, chewing at the edge of his thumbnail. He’d killed planets in his time, had in fact been indirectly responsible for the destruction of a third of the universe quite recently, but there were some things he’d never sink to. Molesting his best enemy while he was incapacitated by regeneration sickness was right at the top of the list.

Even if his best enemy was unlikely to remember anything that happened to him in the next 24 hours or so, and was wearing the prettiest form he’d had in 600 years, and was _sleeping in a bedchamber_ only a few dozen feet away.

The Master breathed out shakily. So. That was settled. He was a Time Lord, even if he was currently wearing the body of a much more . . . biologically driven species. His will, though, was iron-clad. His mind was his own, and if he decided this body would not give in to its baser impulses then it would not.

Therefore there was no harm in checking to make sure the Doctor was all right, was there?

The Master was on his feet and out of his room almost before he’d finished the thought. He made it halfway down the corridor to the Doctor’s chamber before he stopped. No, no, _no_, this was all wrong. Completely wrong. What was he thinking?

He turned around and walked back to his room. Closing the door behind him, he stood staring at his own empty bed, with its tasteful drapes and neat bedside table and complete absence of sleeping Doctor.

Was he really thinking about doing this? Was he _really_ that low? He was the Master. He was a Time Lord. He was better than this, wasn’t he?

He’d waited six hundred years to have the Doctor this close. Six hundred years. And he knew, deep in his gut he _knew_ the Doctor would never stay. As perfect as this world was, the Doctor would never stay here with him. Tonight was all they had.

“I won’t do anything he doesn’t want,” he said aloud. His single heart was pounding in his chest. “If he asks me to stop, I will.”

As if the Doctor were in any state to know what he wanted. As if he were capable, now, of asking for so much as a drink of water.

“Fuck,” the Master said. His plan had been perfect. Everything was perfect. He lay down on his bed and put an arm over his eyes. “_Fuck._”


	2. Chapter 2

Time passed. Three hours and seventeen minutes passed, to be precise. The Master’s time sense was weaker, in this alien body, but it was still there. The main difference he’d been able to determine was how _subjective_ time felt in this body. The hours he’d spent lying here _not_ going to check on the Doctor felt like years.

A noise sounded outside his bedroom door. The Master sat up. He’d been very clear neither he nor the Doctor were to be disturbed tonight, but it was inevitable some brainless peasant would assume “Do not enter this part of the castle on pain of pain; I am your Master and you will obey me.” didn’t apply to _him._ That was the problem with minions. It was all very good to acknowledge that being supreme ruler rather depended on keeping some people around to be ruled, but they did tend to get underfoot.

The Master arranged his features into his best stern yet merciful expression and opened the door.

The Doctor was standing in the corridor outside.

The Master’s jaw dropped. The Doctor was _standing_ outside his door. _The Doctor_ was standing barefoot outside his door. The Doctor was _barefoot_ and wrapped in what looked like – what was, in fact – a red satin bed sheet and standing outside his room. _The Doctor_ was standing _barefoot_ and in a _bed sheet_ . . .

The Master’s brain shorted out at this point.

The Doctor pushed a lock of blond hair out of his eyes and smiled vaguely at him. The bed sheet slipped a bit. “Oh. Hello.”

The Master swallowed. “Hello.”

The Doctor bit his lip. “Terribly sorry to knock you up. The thing is, I was looking for, er . . . well, I don’t know my way around this place, and I was trying to find the . . .”

The Master’s gaze was fixed on the sight of the Doctor’s teeth worrying his pink lip. “I have an _en suite_ you can use,” he heard himself say.

The Doctor brightened. “Oh, lovely! Thank you, old chap.”

The Master stepped back to allow the Doctor entrance. Feeling a bit in a daze himself, he led the way to his private bathroom and showed him inside. While the Doctor was occupied, the Master spent the next forty-five seconds pacing his room and debating furiously within himself.

He’d been good, hadn’t he? He’d stood in the face of _overwhelming_ temptation, and he’d held fast. But this was too much. This was too much for anyone to take. The universe was just playing with him now.

There was a sound of running water, and then the Doctor emerged, blushing gently. “Thank you again.”

The Master was captivated by the sight of the color shading the Doctor’s pale cheeks. “Think nothing of it,” he said.

The Doctor paused. He tilted his head to one side. “You know, it’s the daftest thing, but I could swear I know you from somewhere.”

“We’ve met.” The Master managed to speak the words almost calmly.

“Have we?” the Doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself at the moment.”

“I know,” the Master said. The Time Lord part of his mind was screaming for him to get the Doctor out of here before things got even more out of hand than they already were, while another, much baser, much _stronger_ part of himself was insisting he quit this inane conversation and just throw the Doctor down on the bed here and now.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’ll be better in the morning.”

The Doctor studied him with guileless hazel eyes. He was, the Master noted with a pang of disappointment, _still_ taller than he was in this body. He was also sleep-tousled and flushed and standing much, much too close.

“You do seem . . . familiar,” the Doctor said. He reached to brush his fingers along the Master’s jaw, a feather-light touch the Master barely felt before it was withdrawn.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said. He was blushing again. “I don’t know why I did that.”

The Master swallowed hard. There were times to stand on moral principle, he decided, and now, when the Doctor was standing mussed and barefoot and very nearly willing in his bedroom was not one of them.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

It wasn’t really a fair question. The Doctor had had a traumatic regeneration, and in the immediate aftermath, the Master knew, one tended to be very open to suggestion. But he tried to keep his voice neutral, and very deliberately did not use any of his still considerable powers of hypnosis. He wanted this to be the Doctor’s choice.

The Doctor sat compliantly down on the edge of the bed. The Master sat next to him.

“Do you remember how you came here?” he asked.

“I built a cabinet out of what was left of the zero room,” the Doctor said. “Nyssa and Tegan had to carry me.”

He did _what_? The Master had guessed his little jaunt to the beginning of the galaxy might jolt the Doctor a bit, give him a challenge to fire up his newly formed synapses, but dismantling the zero room and redirecting its energy without destroying the planet and while still in the first day of his regeneration was . . .

“Extraordinary,” the Master breathed. He brushed the backs of his fingers over the Doctor’s hair, finally giving in to the desire he’d had from his first glimpse of this new body, to feel those flaxen strands against his skin. “That is . . . you really are something, you know?”

The Doctor shifted position, looking at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Touching you,” the Master said. He twined a lock of hair between his fingers and then slid his hand down to cup the back of the Doctor’s neck. “Do you like it?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.” The Doctor’s skin felt unnaturally cool under the Master’s Trakenite hand, but he could feel the rapidly beating pulses just under his jaw.

“You used to like it, once,” the Master said. And that really _was_ playing dirty, because in this state the Doctor was hardly able to make sense of the regeneration-heightened signals his body was sending him, much less sort out the tangled web of love, hate, friendship, and passion that comprised his history with the Master. But it was still true.

Resting his left hand at the Doctor’s neck, the Master used his right to turn the Doctor’s face toward him. He kissed him, gently, just brushing the softness of his lips with his own.

The Doctor made a small sound in the back of his throat. The Master’s hand tightened involuntarily at that, pulling the Doctor’s hair as he deepened the kiss. And now he could taste the Doctor and feel the artron energy sparking on his tongue, firing all his senses. Even this alien body responded to it. For the Doctor, in a Time Lord body with every nerve made new and charged with the heightened sensitivity of regeneration, it must have been nigh overwhelming.

The Doctor broke the kiss, breathing hard. His eyes were huge in the dim light. “I should go.”

“Is that what you want?” the Master asked, hating himself a little even as he said the words. Because of course the Doctor was in no condition to resist, or even to know if he really _wanted_ to resist. But the blood was thundering in the Master’s ears, his whole being was flushed and aching to touch with greater strength than he’d ever felt when he was in his own body, and it occurred to him that the Doctor was not the only one who was not completely in control of himself this night.

He kissed the corner of the Doctor’s mouth, then his jaw, and nuzzled the long column of his throat. The Doctor moaned, tilting his head back, his hands coming up to grasp the Master’s shoulders. The sheet fell and pooled around his waist.

“You can leave,” the Master whispered against his ear, wanting to believe it was true. “The door is right there. I won’t stop you.”

He slid his hand down the smooth sweep of the Doctor’s back, his nails scraping lightly over his skin. This Doctor colored so easily – the lightest scratch, the smallest blow would shade his skin from pale cream to a perfect rose. But the Master resisted the urge to mark his claim, and kept his touch to a caress. He could no more stop what was happening between them now than he could stop Gallifrey in its orbit, but he could at least be gentle.

He eased the Doctor down to lie on the bed. Bracing his hands on either side of the Doctor’s shoulders, he held himself up, simply looking at him. He drank in the golden shine of his hair, strewn across the pillow, the smooth expanse of his chest, the slope down to his narrow hips, the white of his skin framed by the spill of crimson fabric. 

He was, in an indirect and very much _inadvertent_ way responsible for this new regeneration, and he felt a certain proprietary pride in it. Also . . . well. Time Lords considered physical appearance to be of such unimportance as to be hardly worth mentioning. It was gauche to take notice of the body; such things were the purview of primitive species. The mind was what mattered, and the Doctor had the most magnificent mind the Master had ever encountered, or ever wanted to encounter. And now, his decidedly primitive body was informing him, he had a body to match.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed.

The Doctor flushed, and his brows drew down in a frown. “That’s something you say to women.”

“No,” the Master shook his head. “No, my dear Doctor, in this case it is the simple truth.”

The Doctor did not look convinced. The Master kissed the crease between his eyebrows, and then his lips. He slid down the bed, trailing kisses over the ridge of his collarbone, down between swift double beat of his hearts. He pressed his lips to the pulses point just below his breastbone, breathing in the scent of him: sweet meadow grass and summer hay, tinged with the salt taste of sweat and the heady musk of arousal.

More than anything, this Doctor smelled like the lost days of their youth. The red fields of the Master’s family estate had been their playground, and it was there in the suns-warmed grass that their first fumbling explorations had taken them from friendship into something more. This Doctor smelled of that time of innocence, of first love and trembling need. This Doctor smelled like _Theta._

The Master moaned, pressing his face into the softness of the Doctor’s skin. His cock felt like iron, his balls heavy and aching between his legs. He was shaking with the effort of restraining this too-hot body from simply plunging itself into his dearest enemy then and there. 

The Doctor whimpered beneath him. The Master pushed himself up to look at him, panting. The Doctor’s eyes were dilated, their hazel clouded with need. He shifted position, raising his hips in an abortive gesture. “Please . . .”

“What?” the Master asked, because he was the Master, after all, and couldn’t resist the opportunity for a little cruelty, however small. “Tell me what you want.”

The Doctor licked his lips. “Touch me,” he whispered. “Please.”

The Master groaned. He would have loved to draw this out, make the Doctor beg him for it . . . but even as he was thinking about that his treacherous body was already sliding down and eagerly pushing aside the drape of red satin that covered the Doctor’s arousal.

He took just a moment to admire this new Doctor’s cock: the long and slender shaft blood-swollen with its head already slicked with pre-cum. It was like the rest of this Doctor: perfect.

The Master kissed it, gently pressing his lips against the length that felt almost warm, even to this alien flesh. The Doctor must be burning hot. He lapped the salt from its head, teasing the slit with his tongue, and the Doctor cried out, bucking his hips.

The Master held him down. And then, because he _was_ the Master, he ignored the object of both their desires and instead slid lower and nuzzled under the Doctor’s balls, licking and rubbing against soft skin of his inner thigh. The Doctor squirmed, grabbing convulsively at the Master’s head, his fingers tangling in the Master’s short hair.

“Ah! Ahh – no, stop. Stop it!”

The Master looked up, grinning. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” the Doctor said. A few strands of his sweat-streaked hair clung to his forehead. “It’s just – your beard. It tickles.”

The Master’s face fell. “Oh.” He sat back on his heels, feeling embarrassed and freshly aware of how very _wrong_ this entire situation was. “Well. Perhaps you should go.”

The Doctor sat up. His perfect face was a study in confusion. It was an expression the Master had never seen on the Doctor’s previous incarnation, but seemed somehow suited to this one. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he sounded hesitant, uncertain.

The Master opened his mouth to say yes, and something deep inside him rose up and pushed aside the lie crafted to salve his wounded ego, and forced the truth from his lips instead. “No.”

He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “But you should. Leave now, before . . .”

The Doctor took his hands, pulling them down to look into his face. “But I don’t want to.”

The Master gave a bitter chuckle. “You don’t know what you want. That’s just it, don’t you see? You don’t even know who I am. If you did you would never . . .”

The Doctor frowned. “You are . . .” he trailed off, studying the Master’s eyes. The Master held his breath.

“You are someone important to me,” the Doctor finished. “Aren’t you?”

The Master’s lips twisted in a half-smile. “I suppose I am,” he said. “And that’s why we can’t do this now. You aren’t yourself.”

“You seem very sure of that,” the Doctor observed. “How do you know this isn’t who I am now?”

The Master looked at him, sitting there naked and nearly debauched on his bed, the most incongruous picture of innocence mixed with wanton desire. “Oh. Oh, my dear Doctor, you can’t be. It would be too perfect.”

The Doctor bit his lip. “Then, if you know who I really am, can you show me?”

The Master tensed. “What do you mean?”

The Doctor shifted closer, pressing their legs together. He ran his hands up the Master’s arms, over the sleeves of his dressing gown, up to trace the line of his jaw, the contours of his ears. The Master watched him warily, half-expecting a trap.

“I want to know,” the Doctor whispered, so close now that his breath brushed against the Master’s lips. “I want . . .”

He brought their mouths together at the same moment his fingertips found the contact points at the Master’s temples, and the Master’s whole body jerked as the Doctor’s mind flooded into his, feelings and thoughts and sensations overwhelming this body’s meager defenses as though they were not there.

The Master was still a Time Lord, but occupying this alien body imposed certain limits. Out of necessity he had been forced to use his own considerable mental powers to dampen the full intensity of his mind, lest his Time Lord consciousness burn this body to ash before he could find another. Now he felt as though a dam had burst, and he was feeling and thinking and seeing again with all the power of a Time Lord, and oh, _Rassilon_, how had he ever managed without this?

And more, this was _the Doctor_ filling him, stretching him, and he could feel everything the Doctor felt, all his nerves and sinews made new and burning with energy, the time streams raging through his mind, the world turning beneath them and the stars in their courses overhead, and beyond those basic things he felt all the Doctor’s confusion and uncertainty and _need_, need to know, need to feel, need to touch and to be touched, and most of all need for him, the Master, as they had always needed each other and never, until now, admitted it.

“Doctor,” the Master groaned aloud, and would have said more, would have lost himself so far as to speak the Doctor’s true name, but the Doctor saw his intention and silenced him with a kiss that seared all thought away.

He could feel the power of the Doctor’s mind like a dark wind rushing through him, searching to fill the empty spaces in his own memory, and that could work but the Master had a much better idea of how to give him what he sought.

The advantage of occupying a more primitive body was that it was, well, _primitive._ It was very physical, and not easily dismissed by even a Time Lord’s mind. And it meant that of the two of them, the Master was the best equipped to do what he did next.

Some dim awareness of the physical world remained, pale and unimportant before the intensity of their mental joining. The Master reached down with questing toes until he found the floor next to the bed, and then grabbing the Doctor by the shoulders he pulled them both to their feet. The Doctor did not resist. His eyes were closed, his face drawn with concentration as he focused entirely on their mental bond.

The Master guided the Doctor backward until he was pressed against the bedroom wall. Then, careful not to break the connection of the Doctor’s fingertips at his temples, the Master slowly knelt.

It wasn’t what he’d dreamed of. It wasn’t the Citadel. No galaxies lay before them, no adoring crowds gathered to pay homage. It was only the two of them, in a dimly lit room on an insignificant planet. But it was the closest that the Master had come to pure joy in almost six hundred years as he finally knelt to worship at his Doctor’s feet.

He lapped the salt from the Doctor’s cock and gave him the taste of it, the knowledge of how long the Master had ached to do this. He took the hot weight of it in his mouth, sliding over his tongue, and gave to the Doctor the memory of the Keller machine, and all the times before and after that: all their trials of strength, questing against each other, delighting in each other’s sharpness of wit; all the years when who won and who lost mattered far less than the time they spent together.

He hollowed his cheeks, swallowing deep in his throat, and heard the Doctor groan. And he gave to the Doctor his envy and fear and hatred of the Doctor’s most recent past self, who bestrode the stars like a giant, needing no one, who scarcely noticed his Master crouching wretched and broken at his feet.

He lifted up on his knees to tease the weeping slit with his tongue, and as the Doctor cried out and clutched at his hair, his fingers slipping against the Master’s temples, the Master gave to him his fondness for his second self: the kind and foolish clown, who had bumbled and teased his way into bringing a scheme decades in the making crashing down around the Master’s ears.

Finally he slid his hands over the Doctor’s hips, wrapping his arms around him as he gave the most precious memories of all: of fields of red grass, and hands fumbling under Academy robes, warm skin and the exhilaration of love untainted by what was to come. They had been so young then. Rassilon, they’d been so very young.

“Oh,” he heard the Doctor say, his voice soft with wonder. “Oh, Master.”

At those words the Master’s climax took him, rushing over him in a wave of unexpected heat and jolting shocks of pleasure. He cried out, his voice muffled against the Doctor’s flesh as his hips bucked helplessly, the hot seed spurting into his sleep clothes.

He gave the Doctor that too, through their shared link, and then the Doctor tried to pull back as his own climax neared, but the Master clutched him tight, taking his frantic thrusts deep into his throat and swallowing hard, again and again until the last bittersweet drop was gone.

Finally he fell back as the Doctor’s fingers slipped from his temples, and sinking fully onto the floor the Master let his head rest against the Doctor’s thigh. He could not quite bring himself to look at his old enemy, and so he closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware his face was streaked with tears.

“Master,” he heard the Doctor say. And then the other Time Lord was sinking down to kneel beside him, and gathering him into his arms. Cool lips pressed into the Master’s sweaty hair. “My dear Master.”


	3. Chapter 3

The Master refused to open his eyes. Opening his eyes would mean admitting this was real, that he was actually curled in the arms of his best beloved enemy and he had just exposed the most vulnerable truth of his hearts to the man he hated/loved most in the universe. It could not be, he decided, listening to the double beat of the Doctor’s hearts. His ear was pressed to the Doctor’s chest, and the other Time Lord was stroking his hair. It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

“Come on,” the Doctor said. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit, shall we?”

And this was most _definitely_ a dream, because there was no reality in which the Master would allow himself to be lifted to his feet and led with an arm around his shoulders, like a child, back to his bed. There was no reality in which the Doctor would lay him down so tenderly, or with such a gentle touch untie his dressing gown, or slide off his soiled garments.

The Master lay still, eyes closed, secure in the unreality of the entire situation. He heard running water and wondered dreamily if it were morning yet, and if a servant was running his bath. Then the bed dipped as the Doctor sat down beside him, a cool and still very naked thigh pressed against his own, and began to clean his stomach with a damp cloth.

It was getting harder to remember this was all a dream.

The Master squirmed as the cloth slid lower, drawing teasing circles below his navel. The cloth’s touch was warm, but the dampness it left behind quickly cooled, chilling this alien skin. It dipped lower still and he gasped, opening his eyes.

The Doctor smiled down at him, his hazel eyes mischievous in his young-looking face. “Sorry,” he said.

“You will be,” the Master rasped, and winced at the dryness of his throat. “Water?”

“Yes, sorry! Here it is.” The Doctor held a glass to his lips, and the Master propped himself up on an elbow to drink. The Doctor kept hold of the glass, so the Master had to take his hand to steady it. When he finished the Doctor set the glass aside but held on to the Master’s hand.

The Master raised an eyebrow at him. It was somewhat difficult to maintain the proper level of _sang froid_ in the presence of the man he’d just sucked off with a level of enjoyment that would have been painfully obvious even without telepathy, but the Master was never one to back down from a challenge.

“Was there something you wanted, Doctor?”

The Doctor smiled again and dropped his gaze. He was tracing circles with his fingertips over the back of the Master’s hand. “Yes,” he said. He raised the Master’s hand to his lips, and turning it over he kissed the heel, just below the pulse point of this body’s single beating heart.

“I want to say thank you.”

The Master’s breath hitched, just a little, but he managed to keep his voice even. “For what?”

The Doctor laughed softly, his breath a cool puff of air against the Master’s skin, and the Master almost snatched back his hand. If he _dared_ to mention what the Master had just done, if he even _thought_ about it, the Master would flay him alive. He’d take that pretty skin from his body, piece by piece. He’d make sure the Doctor never left this planet, him or his little pets. He’d –

“For reminding me of who I am,” the Doctor said. “For reminding me . . . of so much I had forgotten.”

He kissed the inside of the Master’s arm, the crook of his elbow, and bent forward to brush his lips over the Master’s clavicle. “Let me thank you.”

The Master tilted his head back as the Doctor explored his neck. “I . . . it isn’t that I don’t appreciate it, but . . . oh. Oh. This body . . . ah . . . seems to have certain . . . oh . . . certain limitations . . .”

The Doctor sat up. He had a look of smug satisfaction, like a cat who’d just discovered the world’s largest bowl of cream. The Master was quite certain the next time he looked in a mirror he’d find teeth marks.

“Not to worry,” the Doctor said. “I can start us off, and I’m sure you’ll catch up.”

Definitely a dream, the Master decided, closing his eyes again as the Doctor settled between his legs. He abandoned himself to the sensations reported by this so very alien body, drifting in contented lassitude. A Time Lord’s body served at his mind’s command, as the Doctor was so capably demonstrating. This one the Master'd acquired seemed to have a will of its own, or a lack of will as the case might be, and there was something exciting in the very powerlessness of that.

It was, however, starting to report an interest as the Doctor’s teeth scraped over his nipples, followed by the cool swirl of his tongue. That clever tongue slipped lower, dipping into his navel before sliding down to examine the spent length of his cock. The Master moaned, lifting his hips as the cool wetness engulfed him. 

He opened his eyes, wanting to see the golden sheen of the Doctor’s head between his legs. The blood was rushing down there again, driven by the pounding of his single inefficient heart. He was half hard already, fueled by the sight and feel of the Doctor so completely focused on him – on _him_, not on his pets or his hobby planet or the universe or anything else, on his Master alone – when the Doctor pulled back and looked at him.

“Oh yes,” he said, and there was definite pride in his work there, of which the Master fully intended to disillusion him just as soon as he managed to stop whimpering. The Doctor grinned at him and then shifted position, bracing himself with a hand on the bed as he reached up to snag one of the pillows next to the Master’s head.

“What are you doing?” the Master asked, a terrible suspicion forming in his mind. It was confirmed a moment later when the Doctor slid the cushion under his hips.

“Oh no,” the Master said, starting to sit up. “Oh no, that’s not how this works. Uh uh.”

The Doctor pushed him back down. “Master,” he said. “Trust me.”

“Trust you? Fine. You lie down and I’ll bugger _you._ Then I’ll trust you just fine.”

The Doctor ignored this. He was looking around the bedroom. “Do you have oil? Some sort of lubricant?”

The Master groaned, putting an arm over his eyes. He’d built an entire planet with the express intention of luring the Doctor into his power. Of _course_ he had lube.

“Top drawer of the bedside table.”

The Doctor climbed off the bed. The Master lay still, listening as the drawer slid open, then closed again. He was trying hard to stay ignorant of how very _intensely_ aroused this body was becoming at the thought of the Doctor fucking him.

There was a creak of bedsprings as the Doctor settled once more between his legs. “Oh, my dear Master,” he murmured. “Look at you.”

The Master had no intention of doing any such thing. He could feel for himself how desperately hard his cock was, the fluid leaking down his shaft. He was panting, and his hips refused to stop their needy, impatient twitching no matter how adamantly his mind ordered them to do so. When the Doctor slid down and began to gently lap his balls, his clever tongue rolling first one and then the other into the coolness of his mouth, the Master moaned aloud.

And when the Doctor slid lower still, and the Master felt the slick softness of his tongue breach him for the first time, he cried out and bucked his hips helplessly, on the brink of such shameful, needy orgasm as had taken him when he’d knelt at his Doctor’s feet. And he dared not think of that, or he really would come again before the Doctor had even fully touched him, and he couldn’t bear revealing so much of himself twice in the same night.

Thankfully, then, he felt the Doctor pull back, and when next the oil slid down his skin it was almost soothing. The Doctor slipped one hand between his legs and stretched his body on top of the Master’s, taking his mouth in a deep kiss even as he massaged the oil along his perineum and over the tight muscle of his entrance.

The Master returned the kiss hungrily, greedily drinking in as much of the Doctor as he could. He pressed his fingers to the Doctor’s temples, desperate for more, but this alien body lacked the necessary neurons to initiate telepathic contact. The Master whined in frustration, bringing his legs up to wrap around the Doctor’s hips as he squirmed, trying to simultaneously claw into the other Time Lord’s mind and push himself onto the Doctor’s fingers, and failing at both attempts.

He heard the Doctor chuckle, and oh, he would make him _pay_ for that some day, but it didn’t matter now because the Doctor’s mind was joining his, flowing past him and around him and filling him to the brink of overflowing. Only distantly did the Master feel the slow burn as the Doctor’s fingers pushed into him at last.

He must have made some sound, some sigh or whimper as he was stretched, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was the Doctor taking him, filling him physically and mentally and completely, and the Master could not conceive of any ecstasy greater than this. He’d schemed and planned and worked for centuries to overpower the Doctor, but that the Doctor would care enough to overpower _him_ had seemed a dream too impossible to imagine.

_Do you want this?_ The question came through their mental joining, and the Master replied the same way, not bothering to lie, not bothering even to conceal the desperate longing in his heart.

_Yes. Please, yes._

The distant burning became more intense, more real, and the Master gasped and tensed involuntarily. Then it changed as the Doctor shifted position, and the Master felt him move inside him, and there was a shock of pleasure that made him cry aloud. The Doctor groaned, and the Master thought with a certain smugness of his own that _he_ was responsible for that.

Then they were moving together, joined in a shift-sliding rhythm that sparked heat through the Master’s whole body with every thrust. And more, much more, the images were flooding his mind, pictures of himself, dapper and sophisticated in his proper body, his Time Lord body, but also of him now, in this alien shell but still _him_ in every way that mattered. And, most of all, the memories of his youth seen now through loving, familiar eyes: of dark-haired, clever Koschei with his dreams of greatness.

_For you_, the Master thought. _I only ever wanted it for you._

_I know_, came the reply, whispered in the intimacy of his own thoughts by the only other mind that had ever been a match for his.

And the Master saw the Doctor _did_ know, in the emotion that coupled each image: fondness, and exasperation, and admiration, and anger, and sorrow, and always, always present but never spoken, love.

There was no hatred there. Which surprised the Master, because he _had_ hated the Doctor at times, but perhaps hatred could only come when one was so totally, completely consumed by another as the Master was by the Doctor.

He knew in this one way, at least, their relationship was not equal, and never would be. But here and now he had given everything of himself to his old enemy, and the Doctor was giving as much of himself in return as he could. More of himself than he had ever given anyone else, at least. And for right now it was enough.

“_Master_,” the Doctor cried aloud, and through their link the Master knew his thought, the syllables of his true name stopped just short of the Doctor’s lips, and the wave of pleasure shot through him like an exploding star, whiting out everything else.

Later – much later, it seemed, but the Master’s time sense told him it had only been a few minutes – he lay with the Doctor sprawled beside him, one leg draped over his and an arm across his chest, his corn-silk hair tickling the Master’s cheek.

The Master was slowly coming back to himself. He was terribly thirsty again, and there was something sticky on his stomach and trickling between his legs. He felt dazed and wonderfully, incredibly happy.

Of course it could not last. He had revealed much too much to his favorite enemy; in his need he had given the Doctor far too powerful a weapon against him. But there were ways to deal with that. The Doctor was still in the first 24 hours of his regeneration cycle. Had he tasted food yet? He might not be familiar with his new body’s taste receptors; his chemical analysis wouldn’t be up to its usual standard. There were memory altering drugs that worked on Time Lords. Or if not that then there were other ways of ensuring this night remained the Master’s alone.

The Master hugged the Doctor a little closer to his chest. Later. There would be time for that, and time to get the Doctor back to his room before he woke up. Now he was here, and the Master could spend a little longer luxuriating in the feel of him in his arms and the lingering afterglow of their joining in his mind.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to return to the old game, to challenge this Doctor and to exult in being challenged to his limits in return. For just now the Master was content to rest, and to know, whatever happened next, this one plan had been an unqualified success.

_The End_


End file.
